Fever
by Arrow in my Back
Summary: As the beginning of a war rages between werewolves, humans, and vampires, two newborns find themselves becoming unlikely allies. Wally/Dick, friendship or slash. AU.


Disclaimer: I do not own Young Justice or any of the characters hereby mentioned unless stated otherwise. I do not make any profits off of this story and it is written purely for recreational purposes only.

Author's Note: Inspired by the comparison of Robin as a vampire and Kid Flash as a werewolf done by my friend, I decided to write an AU story. Will it contain slash? Maybe, maybe not. I'll have you, the readers, decide that for me. I hope I didn't make the scene with Bruce and Dick and Barry and Wally too homoerotic—it sort of just slipped out! Their relationships in this story are purely father/son.

xxx

Prologue

"We are a fever. We ain't born typical."

– U.R.A. Fever, The Kills.

xxx

The fever started when the boy was thirteen.

Bruce had noticed the way he started changing, could feel it in his very being. It began with a slight headache, to which Bruce's butler Alfred Pennyworth tried fixing by serving him the warmest milk and tea, but it had done little to stop them from coming on. They began to get worse and worse until they were complete migraines and he could barely sleep, and this was when he began to complain about his body and how _hot_ or _freezing_ he felt. Bruce would press one large hand against his small forehead, completely covering it, and despite how cold he himself was, he could feel a change in the boy's temperature—it fluctuated immensely, just insanely high or horrifically low, with no in between. His body ached so much that he was now confined to his bed and the food the butler would bring him couldn't stay down no matter how hard he tried.

It was at this point that Bruce realized that his ward, his boy, Richard Grayson, was dying. And he had no control over it whatsoever.

Richard was a secret known only to him and his butler, he realized. The orphan was only nine years old when he found him—broken, crying, weak, _alone_. He'd worked at some circus in town that offered human entertainment to undead eyes as an acrobatic with his mother and father, who both now lay dead in a pool of their own blood next to him. The scent was overwhelming for the vampire, but not as overwhelming as the sight; it touched something in his heart which he hadn't realized still beat against his chest, filled with blood that wasn't his own. Both were orphans in a dark and dangerous world and when he scooped the boy up into his arms, he came to an understanding that the two were the same.

He protected him and loved him like his very own. Richard was like a vibrant splash of colours, a rainbow that reflected from a glass by sun. He was that small light in his dark tunnel and as he got closer to him he found the darkness decreasing day by day, shade by shade. Both came to an understanding that neither of them were stronger nor weaker than the other, and that neither were evil. Richard didn't fear him and not once did Bruce think of the boy as simply food. No, he thought of the boy as his very own son, and he hoped that one day the boy would refer to him as a father figure.

But then there was the fact that the boy was _human_. In this world that they lived in, so full of pain and shadows, humans weren't given any rights—they were harvested, used as entertainment and food, told only to reproduce so the vampires could retain sustenance. Humans _were_ weak and fragile, like a delicate flower in the middle of a mine field, and Bruce was aware of the risks that the two could face if anyone ever found out about their relationship. Richard would get sent off to be harvested, drained to the very bone and thrown away like useless cattle and Bruce... Bruce would die as well, after hours of torture and interrogation.

Perhaps it was purely selfish, perhaps the boy wanted it, but Bruce knew what he had to do.

It was early in the night when Bruce finally made his decision. He'd weighed his options—would Richard hate him? Would Richard leave him afterward? Would he hate himself?—and decided that he would save him no matter the cost. Brushing past various corridors of the Wayne Mansion, he pushed open the large door of his ward's bedroom. He found his boy was laying there in his bed, the heat of his fever causing him to breathe heavily. Dressed only in one of Bruce's old nightshirts, it offered little comfort as sweat broke out and ran down his temples. Small, pale legs were entangled in bed sheets and that small chest of his rose and fell quickly. Bruce could hear his heartbeat—as weak and fragile as it was—pounding quickly and noticed that it seemed to slightly ease when he noticed that his adoptive father was in the room with him.

"Bruce..." His voice, young and on the brink of puberty, called out from within the darkness and Bruce found himself walking towards him, not making so much as a sound with his footsteps. The only thing that could be heard in the room was the boy's shallow breathing and the shifting of weight as the vampire sat beside his ward on the edge of the bed, taking the smaller hand into his own.

"Dick." He said, voice deep but slightly affectionate. The look on Richard's face was unreadable and as they exchanged glances it was clear that he came to an understanding, an acceptance. Eyes the bluest of robin eggs trailed down to his small wrist and followed as it was lifted to Bruce's lips. Leaning over and brushing sweaty bangs from his forehead, he pressed cold lips against Richard's warm temple and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

No more words were exchanged. The coldness of Bruce's lips lulled the boy and he was so wrapped up in this that he hadn't noticed they left back to his wrist. It took the sudden bite to his vein to shake him out of his stupor, and he watched with wide eyes as he felt himself growing weaker, emptier, _dying_. Bruce's eyes were trained on him, trained on his own, and he felt his heart pound the hardest it ever had against his chest. His vision was swimming and all he could think about was how dark things were getting and how _heavy_ his eyelids were.

Something wet pressed to his lips with a bit of urgency. All he was aware of at that moment was the coppery taste that seeped into his mouth. It disgusted him, made his heart go even crazier, but he couldn't help but to drink this liquid as if his life depended on it—he didn't know just how true that was. It was smooth down his throat, sort of like velvet or silk, and the more he tasted it the more he wanted it. Unaware of his actions, he sat up and took a grip on whatever was feeding this to him before releasing it suddenly as if it were poison. Back arched and hands gripping at the bed sheets so tightly his knuckles turned white, the pounding in his ears and the sound of his heart beat drowned out his blood-curdling screams. His entire being was filled with what seemed to be liquid fire and his heart—oh God, his heart—wouldn't just stop _beating_.

Richard was faintly aware of a hand wrapping around his wrist gently and he slumped back down on the bed, exhausted both mentally and physically. It was the only comfort Bruce could offer his ward for what he had to go through. His heart beat returned to normal and his breathing was beginning to calm, suggesting that he'd fallen asleep. Bruce hadn't even noticed how tense _he_ was until he breathed a sigh of relief and sat a little straighter.

"Master Bruce."

Bruce turned his head towards the door, eyes meeting Alfred's old form. He was surprised that he hadn't heard him coming, but he was too preoccupied and concerned for Dick that he didn't care. "Yes, Alfred?"

"Are you sure you should have done this? You know what this could mean later in the future."

"I'm aware of the risks. What's done is done."

Bruce liked to think that he saved Richard but that nagging suspicion, that guilt that the child would never grow up, would never leave his stomach—not even for a moment.

xxx

Supplies were running low and there weren't nearly enough weapons, let alone people, to take on the vampires that ran the show upstairs.

Barry Allen knew what he had to do. He knew it for quite some time now, but each time he'd try they simply laughed in his face and told him that he and his little band of survivors were lucky enough to still be breathing. None of them saw the good in what it would do, considering just how weak humans were, but both classes were outcasts. Werewolves and mortals went hand-in-hand in his eyes—survivors had to hide underground and scavenge for food and other necessities like vultures, and heaven forbid if a vampire happened to find their hideouts. Everyone would begin running and hide deeper in abandoned subway stations, basements of old buildings, and even mines.

The thing that irked him the most, however, was the fact that werewolves were just as strong as vampires, if not _stronger_. Humans, when armed with guns and heavy artillery, were as powerful as the two classes combined. If he could get the help of the werewolves and just a few more survivors, couldn't they have the fair ability to overpower, or at least match up to, the undead beings? Never could he shake the thought from his mind. This all could be ended if they would just _help_ them.

But it was his carelessness that got the better of him.

He was used to sneaking around the subway tunnels by himself at night. Armed with a flashlight and a magnum with a few silver bullets (just in case, right?), he would say goodnight to his wife Iris and one half-asleep nephew named Wally before sneaking past the other sleeping survivors so he could actually leave without being questioned where he was going. He would _always_ look back to see if anyone followed him, to which none has had so far, but tonight was something different. He'd _forgotten_ to on the night when someone actually _followed _him.

He clambered over fallen debris like he's done many times before, making his way down this make-shift path that was put there by the neighbouring werewolf pack that tolerated their presence. Every Saturday he would come down here and try to make some sort of alliance with them that would benefit both parties, but to no cigar so far. They were more concerned with little brawls and eating whatever meat they could scavenge from the world above than any sort of violent act of justice against the vampires to give those equal rights. Barry just couldn't understand, didn't see why they would want a life like this, considering they were all human once just as the vampires were, and were still treated like the scum of the earth. There was no appeal in this.

"Look, boys. It's our friendly neighbour Allen here to visit us again with false hopes and dreams."

He recognized that voice from anywhere. It was the little 'pack' leader, some guy who changed his name every chance that he could get whenever Barry was visiting. He was resting on a metallic bench, half-naked and dirty, his dark curls covering most of his face. He pushed them back hastily as he got up and the rest of the pack—grown men with the same sort of appearance—surrounded Barry, like they usually do. _One wrong move, one slip-up, one crude remark and he would get it_, they had said, but he now liked to believe that they'd been toying with him.

"Have—"

Barry barely gotten out a word before there was this mind-numbing scream heard in the distance. The werewolves' attentions immediately went behind him and Barry looked back, having heard that scream and recognized it from anywhere. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that it came from his nephew, Wally, who he thought was asleep back with his aunt, and considering how loud the scream was, he was close. Had the boy followed him? Didn't he check to see if anyone did? Was there a vampire down here? Did he get Wally? He turned his heel and began running, faster and faster, as the screams continued on down the terminal got louder and caused his ears to ring.

He skidded to a halt once he saw his suspicions were confirmed. Leaning against one of the support beams and holding onto his bleeding wrist, Wally stood there with tears and blood staining his cheeks. As Barry got closer, he noticed just how badly he was torn up—his wrist looked like some sort of animal attacked him, skin falling off and all. He knelt down to his level and took his hand into his own, examining the wound. This... this was pretty bad. With the supplies they had for medicine and how scarce they were, he was almost positive that his nephew wouldn't make it.

"Wally, why did you—"

"I wanted to see what you were doing! I have... I have the right to know..." The boy's reply was meek, his voice high and close to panicked. He tried his best to muffle his sobs by grinding his teeth together, but to no avail.

Barry shook his head and stared at him, looking the boy directly in the eyes. Blue eyes met a teary green before they looked and Wally forced his hand out of the others grip, crying out in pain as he did so.

"What did this to you?"

"I... I think it was a werewolf..."

Barry's heart dropped.

xxx

Barry was no doctor, but he knew that the boy was losing too much blood. As he ran down the corridor with Wally in his arms, face buried into his chest and bleeding wrist bandaged crudely from a strip of his shirt that he ripped off; all he could think about was getting his nephew to safety and what the boy would become if he were saved. He wasn't exactly sure how vampires made other vampires, but he knew it had something to do with biting them, and this was what he feared—if a werewolf bite is the same as a vampire's, does that mean his nephew will turn into one himself?

Hours turned into days as he took care of him. He and his wife Iris were the only people that could. After breaking out of one of the harvests, he found his nephew was alone and that his parents had already been drained, but even if they weren't there wouldn't have been any real love or support there. His parents had been emotionally distant and treated the boy more like a kid on the street rather than their own child, and when Barry found him he didn't exactly cling until later. He supposed this was the real reason why he followed him.

It was like he and Iris were the boy's real parents rather than his own. He and Iris didn't try for any kids—would you if the world was like this?—so he practically considered his nephew his own son, and he hoped that he was the father figure that the boy wanted in the first place. Wally... Wally was fast pace, one of those types of people that wanted to get things done no matter what the cost. Barry was one of those people that took his time with things, never rushed, and that was why they mixed so well together. Wally made him do things and Barry made him relax. Not once did he ever see the boy back down and he admired his courage.

Things weren't looking good for Wally, however. He broke out into a fever about three days after the attack, starting with a headache and sudden bouts of nausea that would cause him to puke until there was nothing left in his system. He tried to keep things down—he really did!—but they just wouldn't, and it gotten so bad that he couldn't even drink without throwing up. His body went through massive fluctuations of body temperature, either too hot or too cold, and he was sweating feverously. His body ached all over the place and he was now strictly confined to the makeshift bench bed. This, of course, didn't settle well for the redhead.

"Wally, quit thrashing!" Barry Allen yelled as he held the boy down, surprised that it was actually getting difficult to do so. Since when did the boy get so strong? Iris ushered to his side and placed her hand onto Wally's forehead, and removed her hand moments later.

"He's burning up, Barry!"

"Go... go get some ice! Hurry!" He responded and pointed at the cooler beside them. In doing so, Wally managed to knee him in the jaw and he fell backward, managing to hit his head on the tiled flooring of the ground. He got up in the nick of time to grab Wally's leg and he pinned him there, using all of his weight.

Wally wasn't entirely aware of his surroundings at this point, or what was happening for that matter. All he could feel and see was blind rage and sharp pain, like every single bone in his body was getting broken apart repeatedly, and he could barely hear anything over the sound of his heart stammering against his chest. His lips moved to the words get off but his voice... it didn't match up. It was deeper, throatier, like a growl, and his hands... his nails—since when were they _that _long?—were digging into something soft, like the skin of a peach, or—oh God, Uncle Barry!

He stared over his shoulder at his uncle, whose shoulders were now bleeding heavily and cut pretty bad, and he tried mouthing an apology but couldn't quite get one out as his world suddenly turned black and his body limp. Barry Allen slowly got up and shared in shock at his nephew—or, rather, what used to be his nephew. His body had grown dark hair and his head was that a wolf, his teeth sharp and bared and eyes the meanest slits of green he's ever seen. He was entirely unrecognizable until his body slowly began transforming back into one of the boy he loved and taken care of.

"I see the shrimp's turned into one of us now."

Barry looked up to see the pack leader smoking a cigarette in his usual attire of jeans and nothing else. His stubbled smirk sent a chill through Barry's entire being and he tensed while he watched the man take hold of his wife's hand and press a gentle kiss to it. Releasing her hand, he turned his attention back to Barry.

"Alright. We'll help you."


End file.
